


60 Coffee Beans

by BundtFake



Category: Classical Music RPF, Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, fight me, fluffiest, gayest, i dont know where i'm going with this, just... slow, not really classicaloid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:59:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BundtFake/pseuds/BundtFake
Summary: Franz has been asked by his idol to show him his pieces. Is there something more? Who knows? Not Franz.





	1. Coffee House

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't even proof read  
> im so tired  
> just take it

Franz was in a quiet mood that morning. He had just finished the last dregs of his coffee and was swirling the remaining grains around the bottom of the cup, watching as they spilt around the sides. His friends were talking rather loudly and animatedly around him, he narrowly dodged an arm flung in front of him. An abrupt laugh from Therese pulled him from his stupor and he gave a timid smile when he placed her hand on his shoulder, asking if he was alright. Tiredness dragged at his eyelids and he barely managed a full sentence before he yawned. “Once this coffee has drawn me from my daylight slumber I shall be. Useless liquid.” At this, Therese pushed her own cup towards him and assured him that she was plenty awake already. He accepted it and downed the drink. The noise in the coffeehouse was battering his ears and he longed for some music, anything to take his mind off the throbbing hangover he had received from the night prior. Schober didn’t seem to be affected by the alcohol and seemed as chipper and flirtatious as ever, irritating Franz even more. Even the aroma of the sweet coffee was making him feel nauseous and he wanted to retire to his room.

His eyes swept across the room, taking in the appearance of the fine ladies in their dresses and the men in their suits. A gentleman was attempting to woo a young girl who in defiance, threw her coffee in the offending man’s face. He sputtered and ran out of the coffeehouse weeping. Seems like all the women were doing the heart-breaking nowadays. His own heart wandered back to Therese. A kind and sweet girl, albeit covered in pock marks, wearing a charming smile and a golden heart. He wasn’t sure if the love he felt was romantic or brotherly, she was such a sweet girl but he rejected anything more than her caring gestures. His eyes flickered back to her as she giggled at something Schober said. Well, it seemed there was no jealousy in his heart. A pretty motif tugged at his attention and he was swept away in the moment as he absentmindedly patted his jacket pockets for his notebook. He flipped it open and sketched the idea down, pleased at how it looked on paper. 

He took another look around the room, feeling a bit lighter, and saw a man with unkempt greying hair sit down at a table in the corner, coffee black. It felt as if someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. His hands fell lax at his sides, pencil clattering to the floor. “Franz are you quite alright?” Schober chuckled. All Franz could muster was a squeak. In the presence of the overwhelming musical celebrity, all he could utter was one single note. His friends followed his gaze and Eduard whistled, “Mein Gott it’s Beethoven.” What ensued was a battle between him and his friends as they tried to convince him to introduce himself to the composer. “I will not go over there! He is a giant and I am merely a spore of a wilting fungus…” Franz huffed. Therese giggled. “You practically worship the man, why not do it in public dear friend?” A gasp of indignity escaped him as his cheeks puffed and reddened, “You little devil!” The notion made him more than embarrassed, he squirmed in his seat. Schober got up, “If you aren’t going to, then I will. I’ll invite him to our table.” And in a few strides, he was over near Beethoven before any words of protest could come from Franz. The man seemed to be in somewhat of a temper as the cloud over his head didn’t part as Schober got his attention. 

Franz hid behind his small hands and grew very hot in the face. Footsteps approached the table and a palm smacked down on its surface, rattling the china. The chatter at the table ceased, all eyes on him. Franz uncovered his eyes sharply, getting a face full of the stern look of his idol. To be honest he nearly fainted on the spot if it wasn’t for the powerful voice which shook him from his stupor. “Are you the Franz Schubert of which I have been informed of?” The said Franz nodded his head vigorously, nearly dislodging his glasses. “Yes, Sir.” He yelped. The expression of the older man seemed to soften and his frown almost disappeared, “From what I hear you are quite a composer. Would you mind if I see some of your compositions?” The nervous beating of his heart was taken over by palpitations by this point and Franz managed to answer, through inhaling the sweet scent of coffee and ink coming from the man. “I would be honoured, but at this precise moment they are scattered around my apartment.” Beethoven seemed to stare at Franz, lingering on his lips before responding, “Of course, of course. Then would you bring them to my residence? Say, this afternoon?” Franz could only watch as the address of the composer was hastily scrawled into his notebook, next to the musical idea he had written only minutes before. His eyes met with Beethoven’s and something stirred in his chest. The great looming man put his hand on his shoulder briefly before he walked away, out of the coffeehouse. The spot where his hands had been tingled slightly through his jacket and he turned his head to watch the man walk down the road, out of the window. His friends finally found their voices, “FRANZ! Did you see that?” “Schwammerl’s gone quite red, hasn’t he?” “It was all my idea.” Franz himself finally found his voice, breaking out into a beam, “He smells so nice…”


	2. Sonata

The rest of the morning was spent frantically pacing around his bedroom pulling at his hair. Which compositions would he bring? Would his hero even like them? He pulled a few pieces from his bottom drawer, looked at them, and stuffed them back in not satisfied with what was on the pages. Panic was bubbling in his chest and he sat down at his desk, feeling giddy. He sat still, conjuring up compositions he had heard from Beethoven, and decided to pick things not too similar to them, or he’d look like a plagiarist. Death would be preferable. In the end he chose a few Lieder and Sonatas, including a duet. He just sincerely hoped Beethoven would look at them and not throw them out of the window.  
He checked his reflection in the window and fixed his necktie and jacket. Patting down his wild hair, he stepped out onto the street and made his way over to the address clutched in his sweaty grip. The wind teased at his skin. The fresh Viennese air filled his lungs with hope, although his limbs were trembling, his shoulder was still tingling, blasted thing. It was certainly a splendid afternoon to spend walking through Vienna and the coffee from that morning had finally taken effect unless it was just his nerves putting a spring in his step. 

He had been admiring Beethoven for years, more years than he had in his life. His beautiful compositions, the effortless harmony, his presence as a conductor!   
He passed through the market and stopped to look at the wares, being jostled as groups pushed past him, he ended up pressed up against a stall selling small bunches of sweet smelling flowers. Seeing that the price was reasonable, he handed over some change and took a few violets in a small bouquet. The occupying smell kept him in good spirits as he stepped up the door of the large apartment, rapping lightly with his knuckles. It seemed an age before the heavy door was unbolted and heaved open by a weathered maid, holding a suitcase. “Oh don’t mind me, dear, let yourself in. It’s not like I’m needed around here ANYWAY!” Her voice reached a crescendo as she picked up her skirt and stomped down the steps, clearly in a frightful temper. Franz coughed politely and bid her a good day. He stepped up into the house feeling quite anxious. The irate face of Beethoven appeared round a door down the end of the hallway, before relaxing and stepping out. They met halfway down the corridor and Beethoven stuck out his hand, letting Franz take it in a polite shake, though his voice was raised to an uncomfortable level, “I’m afraid I’ll have to introduce myself properly, boy. This morning I was in a frightful place. Our meeting was cut short as I had to rush home to make myself a coffee.”  
“But sir we were in a coffeehouse. I saw you had a coff-” Beethoven nearly smacked the young composer with the flapping of his hands, not the only thing cutting him off, “But I don’t know what came over me, being there. It must have been fate that we met!” His finger pointed towards the ceiling, “You see the only acceptable coffee is one made with 60 beans. It seems bad coffee brings together fellow composers.” 

Beethoven’s immediate dismissal of his words put him off from the idea that his idol was a perfect gentleman. Although he should have known from his many concerts. The images of candlesticks knocking to the ground flickered. Then the poor boys had to dodge his flailing arms. Of course he would try to conduct at the piano. Franz wondered what kind of piano the man had. 

This barrage was overbearing on Franz’s ears and he let go of the man’s hand gently to step back. However, Beethoven just grabbed it again and led him into the living room, motioning towards a chair. He sat down and held out the folder of compositions, which Beethoven took. The men sat in silence, an unbearable silence, while Beethoven frowned and poured over his scores. He muttered and sang tunes lightly under his breath, slightly out of tune- Franz noticed, closed his eyes and showed unreadable emotions. After what seemed like an eternity, he stood up. “These. These are good, more than good,” Beethoven grumbled. Franz blushed, “Play one of them for me, I want to hear you play.” 

When he meant 'hear', he really meant watch. But it was better to keep up appearances, even if it was in his own home.

Franz froze. Play? He felt lightheaded after the praise and shakily stood up, taking one of his Sonatas over to the piano situated in the corner. What beautiful wood, he mused while smoothing his hand over the deep mahogany. He didn’t have a piano at home so playing something as expensive as this was something he’d never be expected to do, apart from at the Esterházy residence. He shuddered thinking of the geese as he sat down on the stool. 

“Do you like it?”  
“It’s magnificent.” Although he was thinking more about the man sat idly behind him than the piano.  
“It arrived just this week, I was waiting for an opportunity to listen to someone else but myself play. I just can’t hear myself.”

He rested his fingers on the ivories and glanced back at Beethoven. The man almost smiled, and nodded at Franz. He began to play, his Sonata in A Major which he had written the year before. Those minutes in which he played were peaceful and devoid of qualms. He finished with a powerful chord, letting it resonate around the room and timidly looked over his shoulder at his idol. His eyes were filled with sombre clouds but there was a serene smile playing on his lips, contrary to what he had seen throughout the day. His greying hair was mussed and tossed about, just like after one of his performances and he slowly let his eyes drop to Franz’s. Something like a shiver worked its way through his body. Feeling himself getting pulled into those pupils he quickly got up, quite flustered, and removed the rest of the scores from Beethoven’s grip. He held them tightly against his chest and looked at the man. He too stood up and gripped his shoulder tightly, making Franz’s heart jump. “Thank you for showing me your works, Schubert.” His frown was back. But this time it was tamed, thoughtful.


	3. Thinking

It seemed almost silly, after that performance, to still be at his idol’s home. He was seated in the rather cramped kitchen as Beethoven fiddled with the stove. Franz poked his cup of coffee. What a treat to have so many cups this week, he thought. He jolted as a fist came smacking down upon the oven, accompanied by a loud grunt. An egg rolled off the counter and splattered on the floor. Franz stared.

“I never thought…” Beethoven started, “I never thought that if I fired my housekeeper I’d have to cook for myself.”  
He ran his hands through his hair and slumped into a chair, pulling a lukewarm cup of coffee towards him. Looking at Franz as he sipped his coffee, a comfortable silence fell over them.   
“How old are you, Franz?”  
“Hmm… This year I’ll be 23. Why?”  
“What? Sorry?”  
Franz took in the man hunched over his cup, curled in on himself. It seemed he had accidently let something embarrassing slip as he turned his head away, eyes squeezed shut.  
“Sorry…”

Franz was perplexed by this sudden change of character. This man who he had idolised his whole career- no, even further- nearly his whole life, was starting to crumble in front of him. The man who strangled fate was being strangled himself. But by what? Why was the fact that he didn't hear Franz's response properly, call for this withdrawal?  
Franz tentatively reached out and brushed his fingers against Beethoven’s, offering what comfort he could give him. The man abruptly stood, severing the connection, and started pacing around the room, hands clasped behind him. Franz watched him.  
“Of course, I’ll need to find her again. I can’t seem to work this damned stove and I refuse to eat raw food.”  
Franz knew it was time to leave when Beethoven stormed into the next room and started bashing loudly on the piano. 

\---

He walked. Until the evening he paced around the city. Walked as the lamps were lit, illuminating the cobbles and the waste that was crushed into every street. He was thinking too much about the events of the day, it all seemed so unreal to him, meeting someone you had admired for much of your life. Yet after the adrenaline wore off, there was something else that nagged at his brain. Disappointment? Why did he feel disappointed after meeting Beethoven? He reflected back to the brief moment in which their hands met but quickly quelled the thought. He had felt a similar way with Schober. He felt delirious thinking about the way his head nestled into his chest and a hand carded through his hair, rubbing at his scalp. They were so close, their air mixing, it wouldn’t have taken anything at all to just tilt his head back and lock lips with him. Franz was feeling uncomfortably warm now and felt like he needed to lie down. He needed to stop having these thoughts, it was dangerous. If his father found out he would be disgraced. He’d probably be banned from entering Vienna ever again. How would he see his friends? They’d have to sneak out to see him every month and make sure he had enough to eat, maybe he would be forgotten and left to rot in a cellar. 

He found he had made it back to his house without realising it, having been preoccupied with his deep thinking. It was late now, and he quietly shut the door, toeing off his shoes. He crept up the staircase and rounded the corner, taking in a sleeping Mayrhofer, who was hunched over his desk. The man still had his quill poised and the ink was pooling into the paper. Franz regarded him with a small smile and decided to wake him so he didn’t awaken in the morning with leaden limbs.

“Johann, wake up.”  
His friend opened one bleary eye and considered the man crouched down next to him.  
“Schwammerl.”  
“Would you like to get into bed?”

Johann nodded and let Franz lead him to their shared bed where he flopped down and burrowed into the sheets. He dosed while Franz was changing, basking in the warmth of their friendship. Franz crawled in next to him, making the bed dip, and took his glasses off.   
“How was it?” Johann whispered.  
“He was great. He’s a serious guy but he’s such a giant being in the same room as him.”  
Mayrhofer took in the sight of Franz’s flushed cheeks and smiled knowingly, “You like him.”  
“W-well yes he’s a respectable man.”  
“Of course.”  
Their conversation turned to Johann’s latest poems and their plans for a new opera. It was nice that Franz had someone to confide in. He was a good friend. Calming, unlike Schober, and friendly.   
“I wish we had enough money to buy another bed.”  
“Yes, but I like being with you.” Johann chuckled, putting his arm round Franz.  
Franz tucked into his body heat and closed his eyes, slipping into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johann is pure

**Author's Note:**

> stick with me guys


End file.
